


Forget my Name

by FingolfinSilme



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Angband, Angst, Implied Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Implied Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon, Lieutenant of Angband, M/M, Maedhros - Freeform, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Oath of Fëanor, Poor Maedhros, Psychological Torture, Russingon, Snakes, Spoilers for The Silmarillion, angbang, jealous mairon, melkor is a dork, poc tolkien, silmarils referenced, sons of feanor - Freeform, thuringwethil - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22525327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FingolfinSilme/pseuds/FingolfinSilme
Summary: After being captured by Angband a second time, Maedhros is offered a place in Morgoth's army...
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Maedhros | Maitimo & Sauron | Mairon, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 17
Kudos: 74





	1. Breathing Again

Note: This is a short pilot chapter. Feedback is GREATLY appreciated!!! :)  
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It was strange to move. It was strange to feel his body again; the way it could run, jump, lift up a sword. The way his hand could hold it. 

This hand was a wonder. They had brought it to him that morning, in a smooth black box. The metal prosthetic had fit perfectly in the space where his old hand had been. Maedhros had felt his fingers for the first time in a while, had felt the coldness of the water as he had plunged his hand into the basin in his room.

They had kept his sword, too. The Elf had been able to swing it, cut the air. Using his right arm felt more natural, thankfully. He had been terrified that he would have forgotten how to use it.

Maedhros fenced on his own in the courtyard, getting used to moving his legs again. At every footstep, he felt himself grow bolder, stronger, and the shadow of his bonds faded away little by little, like a bad dream he was slowly learning how to forget.

The Elf was restless, thankful for this freedom, for the capability of his body. Yet, the open-air did not mean liberty. They did not let him cross the gates of the courtyard, afraid that he might not come back. Of course, there were guards who would not let him leave, but Maedhros was known for being clever and full of resources.

The air was cool that October afternoon. The wind against the skin of his face, whipping through his hair... That was close to a new feeling for him, after months of being trapped in a humid and suffocating dungeon. The Sun, blessed sight, was already low behind the mountains. How long had it been since Maedhros had seen the Sun, the stars? The sky could not be seen from his jail and he had missed it, even the dull grey clouds of rainy days.

And Manwë knows how much he hates rainy days.

The rain made his hair frizz up and they became impossible to brush, let alone braid. That always got Fingon upset. Braiding Maedhros’ hair was his favourite activity. They sat on the rug in his quarters, facing the crackling fire in the hearth. Maedhros was cross-legged, shoulders relaxed so Fingon, sitting on his heels behind the red-head, could reach the top of his head. After meticulously brushing each and every strand of rebellious hair, Findekàno dug his hands into the soft red curls, his fingers grazing over the back of Maitimo's neck, sending shivers down his spine. He collected the loose strands from the older Elf’s forehead, tucked them behind his ear, brushing against his cheeks...

A moment’s inattention and Maedhros’ foot got caught in a crack in the stone floor. He staggered forward, dropping his sword and barely managing to catch himself by stumbling against the wall. The Elf regained his balance, flustered, and glanced around. Hopefully, no one will have seen this blatant show of weakness.

He looked up at the tower behind him. It was familiar to him, already, in an unsettling sort of way. Many Kings had seen it from up close. Not from his line, of course: his father would have probably blown-up the place if he had ever gotten as far as the gates. And his brothers were all cowards, they would never dare approach it. Maedhros' throat tightened. The only ones who had gotten this close were dead or lost to him forever...

Candles had been lit at a window a few feet above him. He did not know what room this was but it made him uneasy. He felt watched, judged as if this was not his place. And it most likely wasn't. He had nothing to do here, really. But he had not been given the choice, at least not really, and no matter what the choice he had made brought, it would be better than any of the alternatives.

Then, a shadow stirred at the window and Maedhros shuddered. He picked up his sword from the ground and made his way back inside, heart racing.


	2. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgoth's intentions are brought to light.

“You asked to see me, my lord?” The redhead approached, head bent in compliance.

Morgoth looked up from the papers he was reading, cast the bundle of documents to the side and sat up on the black velvet divan.

Even in this casual position, the dark lord of Angband looked terrifying. “Ah, Russandol!”

Maedhros did not react at the name. He stared at the neatly paved floor, at the lighter cracks between the smooth black tiles.

“You fight well, ” the Ainu continued. “Your feet are still unsure but your swordplay is lethal.” Despite his words, Morgoth’s tone betrayed no trace of admiration.

The Elf dared look up slightly, mouthing a few words of gratitude.

“And how is your hand?”

Maedhros bit the inside of his cheek, irritated. He wished Morgoth would get to the point and not waste his time with small talk. Not that he had anything better to do, but he was hoping to spend as little time with the fallen Vala as possible.

“It is fine, my lord, ” he replied blankly, eyes still averted.

“Let me see it.” Before Maedhros could reply, Morgoth had reached forward to take the Elf’s hand. He turned Maedhros’ prosthetic in his hands, taking a close look at the knuckles, tracing the metal fingers with his own. “I shall forever be amazed by his workmanship, ” he breathed, a smile touching his lips as he let go of the redhead’s hand.

The Ainu stood up finally and started pacing the room, taking the trinkets on the furniture, putting them down, playing with the heavy crimson curtains and touching the black and white abstract painting on the wall with the tip of his fingers, his long silver robe trailing behind him as he walked. All the while, Maedhros stood unmoving, barely breathing, in the middle of the room. He watched Morgoth’s robes pick up the dust from the carpet and waited.

He knew that the lord of Angband was testing him, playing with his nerves to see how far he could go. Thankfully, Maedhros had not inherited his father’s fiery temper and was able to stay calm and patient.

When, after what seemed like an age, Morgoth spoke, it was with a radiant tone the Elf had not heard before.

“If I asked you to come, my dear Makaulaurë, it was to share with you a… project I have undertaken.”

Maedhros bit his lip, stomach clenching suddenly. What did that mean? The Elf turned his head towards Morgoth, watchful.

“A project, my lord?”

“Yes! And you are at its very heart.”

Maedhros held his breath, getting increasingly nervous. His brain ran through all the possibilities. The Silmarils? No, that could not be it; the Ainu had in his possession all three of the jewels. It must be about the siege, then, but the war had been won and the armies of Fingolfin and Finrod had been bled white. Maybe Morgoth had found some new way to torture him. Yes, that was it. He made an imperceptible grimace as the realisation came. That was it, he was playing with him. He had been tricked into thinking he was free, but he wasn’t, really.

Maedhros fought the urge to run. Bolt out the door and escape. Or at least die trying.

He took a step back but collided with something solid. Whipping around, Maedhros found himself face to face with the other redhead of Angband. Or, more accurately, he found himself facing the eye painted on the Maia’s golden breastplate. Despite being called Maedhros the Tall, the other towered above him.

Sauron raised an inquisitive eyebrow, a scowl of disgust contorting his otherwise flawless features.

Pushing past the Elf, he crossed the room and let himself drop on the settee his master had occupied earlier.

Morgoth watched the exchange with a smirk, leaning back against the narrow windowsill.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Mairon, ” he said, eyes fixed on his favourite Maia.

He looked back towards Maedhros somehow reluctantly and cleared his throat. “Now that everyone is here, I believe we can treat ourselves to some refreshments.” No sooner had the Ainu spoken these words than two deformed thralls entered the room through a door behind their master, carrying a tray laden with three glasses and a pitcher of red wine.

Maedhros clenched his jaw. The wavering was unbearable. He had to know what this plan was, why he was so important for Angband.

The servants poured a glass for each one of them before walking out cowering away from their lord’s piercing glare.

Sauron made to grab the glass the Ainu offered to him but, seeing the precipitated gesture, the latter withdrew his hand and presented the glass to Maedhros instead.

The Maia huffed and crossed one leg over the other.

“Master, I don’t have all day. Please, proceed, ” Sauron requested in his characteristic bored and disdainful tone.

“Oh, you impatient gingers!” Morgoth protested, emptying his glass and serving himself a second one. “We shall proceed, then, if that is what you desire.”

Maedhros tried to quench the trembling of his hands, but he could see the black liquid in his glass swish around perceptibly. Regardless, he did not miss the occasion to notice that his prosthetic hand was more stable than the other.

“Well, as I suppose you know, Mairon, I have had time to think about our last conversation and I have decided that your proposal was the most adequate way of treating our guest. That is why I–”

“Master you cannot conceive in total earnestness, that I was lucid at the time I emitted this idea!” Sauron burst out, throwing reproachful look in the Elf’s direction.

“Now, I do not question the state you were in, dear, ” Morgoth replied plainly, staring shamelessly at a rapidly blushing Sauron. “I have nonetheless come to realise that you were absolutely right.”

The Ainu finally brought his attention back to Maedhros. The latter had lost control of his thoughts, which were now fixed on finding a way to escape this suffocating room, which caused his entire body to tremble.

“Whilst you were in… The dungeons…” Maedhros’ attention snapped back to Morgoth’s words. “A very unfortunate measure, yet a necessary one, I can assure you, it came to my awareness that you were willing to cooperate. At least more than last time you were here.” He looked at the Elf’s tense and unmoving face delightfully, stepping closer to him, as if to examine him.

“My lieutenant thereupon suggested that you could be an asset for us. You are completely free to refuse my proposal, of course, but it is important to settle the fact that your…survival is largely due to the hope you shall accept it.”

Morgoth let his sentence trail, allowing a strand of the Elf’s untamed hair loosely slip through his fingers. “It is much darker than Mairon’s, ” he commented, before turning away and smiling slyly at his Maia.

Sauron sighed loudly, guessing his master’s intentions. “We’re giving you a place of importance in Angband’s army, son of Fëanor, ” he uttered before bounding up and making for the door, brushing against Morgoth as he passed. "You can find me in the forge when you wish to begin your training."


	3. Tell me More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mairon and Melkor discuss their plans for Maedhros.

"So?"

"So what?"

"What do you think"

"Of him?"

"Yes!"

Mairon hesitated for a moment. "What are you expecting me to say, my lord? That he is promising?" He asked, unconvinced.

"No, I just want your honest opinion."

They were idling on the bed, Melkor lying down across it, Mairon sitting cross-legged with his masters head in his lap, stroking his meticulously kept hair. The smooth dark strands slipped through his fingers with ease and fell neatly in rows on the white sheets.

"I think it would be foolish to trust him." The Maia’s eyes fell on Melkor’s face. "He is a son of Fëanor, after all. Who knows what is going on inside his head." His ensuing scoff made his opinion on the matter clear. The sons of that damnable Elf would never be tamed by himself alone. They would never be tamed if both Melkor and Manwë worked together.

Melkor seemed to be considering his lieutenants reply for a moment. "I thought it was your job to make sure we did know what he was thinking, Mairon, " he replied spitefully, sitting up in an abrupt movement. He rose to his feet and turned away from the bed.

"Master, if you are insinuating that I did not--"

The Vala clicked his tongue. "I do not doubt your skill, my love. I have witnessed his compliance alright. You have broken his will to fight back." He paused, having crossed the room. He reached into a vast ornate glass box and pulled out a large black boa which he draped around his shoulders, stroking its head and making cooing sounds.

Mairon clenched his jaw and sighed ostensibly. His master was easily distracted and it irritated him to the highest point. He found the Vala’s futile preoccupations counter-productive and Aulë knew what the dark lord would do without his trusted lieutenant.

"However, I recall that I had asked you to make him subservient rather than compliant, had I not?" Melkor continued, letting the snake slide to the floor and slither towards the draped four-poster bed.

"Yes, my lord, but..." Mairon replied hesitantly, watching the boa warily. He hated these animals.

The Vala clicked his tongue again. “Stop arguing with me, Mairon, you’re making me want to shut you up,” he said, licking his bottom lip.

Mairon looked away. “Pardon me, my lord,” he replied matter-of-factly, not knowing exactly what his master wanted at that moment.

Melkor stepped closer to the bed with a smirk. His snake had managed to climb one of the posts and was now comfortably installed in the sheets behind Mairon. The Vala leaned forward and stroked his lieutenant’s cheek with his thumb, tracing his lips slowly.

“Tell me, then, how are we going to adjust this error you made?” Melkor’s eyes shone with malice and lust and the Maia was having a hard time keeping his mind focused on the issue at hand.

“We could...”

“Yes?” The Vala permitted the ‘s’ to slink from his tongue, letting the inquiry last longer than necessary.

Mairon’s breathing grew heavier and a shudder ran through his spine. “We could plant doubt in his mind,” he continued, closing his eyes as Melkor leaned in even closer. The Maia could now feel his master’s breath on the skin of his neck and another tremor shot through him.

“Fascinating. Carry on,” Melkor whispered in the other’s ear as he sat next to him, one leg beneath him, the other hanging limply over the edge.

“If we make him believe that his kin is against him--” Mairon gasped when Melkor bit his ear and slipped a hand behind his neck to keep him from stirring.

“Keep. Talking.”

Mairon tried to regain control of his reasoning. “Then, we can persuade him to give us information.”

“And fight alongside us, too,” the lord of Angband added, drawing back just enough to look Mairon in the eye.

The latter looked hurt by this statement. “My lord, I thought...”

“Don’t worry, darling. He won’t be usurping you. You’re still my favourite ginger.” With this, Melkor pushed Mairon roughly so that he fell on his back and straddled him, kissing his jaw and neck.

However, the Maia was not ready to indulge in love-making just yet. He tried to stay rational despite feeling Melkor’s warm hands under his shirt, on his stomach and chest.

“We could go even further, my lord,” he said between kisses.

Melkor grinned and let his hand fall to the Maia’s breeches.

"No, I meant..." Mairon tried to stifle his master's haste. "We could make Maedhros forsake his Oath."

The Vala paused, slightly confused. "What do you have in mind?"

"Well, the Oath of Fëanor stipulates that they shall not rest until the three Silmarils are in their hands and that they shall make war on any who withholds them. This Oath shall be broken if say... One of the Fëanorians had in his possession the Silmarils, so, to guarantee Maedhros’s loyalty we could..."

"NO!" Melkor pulled away violently and bolted to his feet.

"But master, they would stay in Angband under close--"

"I said NO, you senseless Maia!" He shouted, grabbing his green silk robe and wrapping it tightly around himself.

"My lord, please forgive my words. I never meant to anger you..." Mairon had gotten up, too. He approached the other Ainu carefully and placed a hand on his arm, looking up at him with large, apologetic eyes.

With a grimace of disgust and anger, which even scared Angband’s lieutenant, Melkor whipped around. "You should go back to your chambers, " he snarled.  
"Master, please..."

"Get out!!"

Mairon but his bottom lip and nodded slowly. "Yes, sir, " he said softly before heading out, eyes downcast.

The Vala slammed the door behind him and strode to the window which he opened wide. The screams of the squealing prisoners in the emptiness below helped soothe his anger.

He went back to sit on the bed, where he noticed Mairon had left his waistcoat, which he had discarded negligently upon his arrival in Melkor’s chambers. The Vala held it for a moment before tossing it to the floor with an annoyed sigh.

When he turned back to the sheets, he noted with more inclination that his boa was curled up against his pillow. Melkor reached out to stroke the reptile’s scaly head. "We’re not going to let that Elda play with us, are we, my love?" He confided. "Give him our precious Silmarils?! What was he thinking?!"


	4. The Duel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros witnesses the duel between Melkor and Fingolfin.

Maedhros woke up dazed from a dreamless sleep. He blinked at the canopy of interwoven black and green leaves above him, his eyes then tracing the rich drapery down to the foot of the bed.

The Elf sat up slowly, careful not to make a sound. Who knew what was lurking behind the door at this time of night? He threw the sheets back from his legs, naked save from the humid bandages draping his wounds.

Thankful for the thick carpet covering the frigid tiled floor, Maedhros made his way towards the door carefully and pressed himself against it, listening. Nothing. At least nothing that could have woken him up so suddenly.

The Elda pulled some clothes on and turned the doorknob, half expecting it to be locked. He wasn’t a guest of Angband, after all. Yet, there he was, standing in the empty corridor, dimly lit by a few candles on the tapestry-covered walls.

Maedhros made his way to the stairs at the end of the hallway, not knowing where he was going. His heart was beating hard in his ears, his entire body felt the tension and excitement that came with being in a forbidden place.

However, when he reached the bottom of the staircase, he froze. A chilling lament filled the pillared hall like wind gushing through a narrow alley. Like a pack of wolves howling. Maedhros bolted up the stairs just in time to escape a fulminating Sauron crossing the hall to the door leading outside. “Those accursed hounds again!” Maedhros, crouching on the top step, heard him sizzle as he passed.

A moment later, the Maia was back inside, significantly more alarmed than he had been an instant before. Maedhors rushed back to his chambers, afraid to get caught roaming around at night, but also hoping to get a glimpse of what had scared Sauron from the window of his room.

The early Spring night was torched by the blaze of the forges at the foot of Thangorodrim. A cold wind made Maedhros shudder as he opened the window wide, trying to make out the landscape outside.

And then he saw it. A white speck. Glimmering. Speeding towards the gates of the Iron Prison. Was that what the wolves had sensed? What Sauron had seen? The Elf stared at the approaching lantern until he could make out a horse and the outline of its rider. Tall, full armour, long hair flowing behind him as he rode. Another Elda, for sure. Maedhros watched, transfixed, shaking. Could it be… He did not dare shape the thought, afraid it might dissolve if he did.

And as the figure rode closer and closer, Maedhros started making out the rider’s features and his hope grew. For a long time, he dismissed the fact that he was too tall, that his mount’s coat was too light, his shield too large. But then the figure stopped at the gates and removed its helm, revealing a familiar face. Nolofinwë.

Despite himself, the ginger Elf gasped, throat tight. He had yearned for another Ñoldo to come and save him again and even though he was disappointed, Maedhros could not help fear that something had happened to Fingon. Something that prevented him from coming and that angered his father enough for him to come himself.

Soon, Maedhros was pulled out of his thoughts by Nolo’s voice, loud enough for him to hear it. The Elven King was looking up at the fortress, glowing with wrath in the darkness.

“Come, open wide, dark king, your ghastly brazen doors!” The King bellowed. “Come forth, whom earth and heaven abhors! Come forth, O monstrous craven lord and fight with thine own hand and sword, thou wielder of hosts and of banded thralls, thou tyrant leaguered with strong walls, thou foe of Gods and elvish race! I wait thee here. Come! Show thy face!”

How Maedhros wanted to scream back, waving his arms, throw himself out of that window to run to his uncle. Several times, he made to leave the room and walk out to the gates, but a dark sense of foreboding held him back.

Suddenly, the entire fortress shook and rumbled, as if a great bolt of thunder had run through it. Maedhros leaned out the window to catch a glimpse of whatever was coming out of the dark palace through the doors below him.

Morgoth emerged. Having assumed his full corporeal stature, he towered over the landscape from the top of his twelve feet. From where he stood, Maedhros could see the side of his iron crown, encrusted with… The Elf clenched his jaw. His father’s Silmarils. They shone brighter than Nolo’s shield, which radiated but a dim glimmer in comparison.

The Vala’s armour was pitch black and his shield sable and unblazoned. In his other hand, Morgoth held a large hammer, whose size surpassed even the tallest of Elves. It was larger, even than Turukáno, Fingon’s brother.

The Elven King stood unwavering in his white armour, despite the fumes and shadows rising all around him. His mount, Rochallor, did not move a muscle.

With a sudden gesture, Grond fell, as a warning shot, before Fingolfin, and from the impact erupted a surge of dust and fire and a large pit was shaped in the earth.

Yet, Nolo was quicker. In a flash of lightning, he had drawn his sword, Ringil, whose light for a moment drowned out even the blaze of the Silmarils.

The Elf struck Morgoth with his blade, too fast for the Vala to react before another blow came, a third one following. Maedhros could not repress a cry of jubilation as his uncle wounded his captor.

“Shut your mouth.” Maedhros whirled around and found himself facing Sauron for the second time that night. Even though the Maia still wore a smug and cold expression on his face, Maedhros did not miss the utter terror in his eyes.

So he fears for his master, he thought. And with reason. Nolo could be mistaken for Oromë himself.

Just then, a cry resounded outside and both Maedhros and Mairon rushed to the window to see who had been wounded, like a couple of ladies cheering for their champion.

Melkor had struck the Elven King with his shield, causing him to fall to his knees. Maedhros watched, tantalized, as his uncle got back up. 

Half-uncle.

The thought came out of nowhere, like a sudden reminiscence. But an unwelcome one. Maedhros had never adhered to Fëanor's hatred of Fingolfin, had always considered him a father. And yet his mouth was full of bitterness. The Elf glanced at Sauron, who was leaning out of the window next to him. He couldn't see his face but the way he stood betrayed a smirk

Melkor struck Nolofinwë once more. Maedhros' heart had slowed down and, for some strange reason, felt nearly at peace.

Half-uncle. It was not the voice of his father anymore, but his own. Thief. Maedhros stumbled backwards and fell on his bed, eyes closed. 

When he sat up again, short of breath, the Maia had retreated from the window, smiling slyly. He walked out without another word.

The Elf rushed back to the window, dazed. Fingolfin was sprawled on the dark stone, blood gushing out of his throat in waves, rhythmed by the last beats of his dying heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fingolfin's speech is the one in 'The Lays of Beleriand'.


	5. Waiting

He is a thief. A traitor and a Vala-lover. An impostor, a fraud.

Maedhros opened his eyes, breathing loudly to drown the sound of his thoughts.

From the window seat, he could see the ground below without even having to crane his neck. His eyes fell right onto the dark stain, like a default in the otherwise perfectly smooth stone.

They had removed the body, apparently. 

The Elf did not remember falling asleep. He had stared at his uncle’s body until each of his features were printed onto the inside of his eyelids and he could see them even with his eyes closed.

The unwashed blood on the ground below made him feel nauseous. Yet, he did not feel sadness. Or he did not think so. There was no anger and rapture, like when his father had died. Only a feeling of withdrawal, as if he was below the water and had no intention to swim back to the surface.

Maedhros got to his feet, trying to find something to occupy his mind. He smoothed the wrinkles on the dark blue spread of his bed and his gaze fell on his hand. Nearly instinctively, he turned towards the window again, through which the mountains could be seen. He closed his eyes briefly, the memory of his time on Thangorodrim suddenly overwhelming him.

The loss of his hand had been a bitter blow. Who would follow a maimed wreck like him, a warrior unable to hold a sword? He had begged Fingon to end his life on that mountain. There was no escape. But the younger Elf had refused, unable to aim anyway because of the tears in his eyes.

On the way back to Hithlum, Fingon had ripped a piece of his cloak to wrap around his lover’s bleeding arm. Barely conscious, Maedhros had pulled at the front of Fingon’s shirt, also soaked in his blood, trying to speak but not finding the strength to do so.

The next thing he could remember was the light. Hithlum was always so bright and white and beautiful. His cousin slept on the floor, propped up against the bed, the sun filtering through the crack between the curtains falling on his face, his open mouth, his dishevelled hair. The Elf smiled slightly at the sight that meant he was home. How he had missed his cousin...

Maedhros coughed as he tried to sit up. Fingon bolted up, already propping the ginger Elf’s head up with a pillow, offering him a glass of water. Maedhros drank, breathed the clean air of the room, looked at Fingon. The memory of his face had kept him from giving in to the corrupting power of Angband.

“Maitimo...”

Before Maedhros could reply, Fingon had leapt onto the bed, had thrown himself at his cousin’s undernourished body, half-smothering him with kisses.

“You’re awake,” he commented once he had pulled back. He was grinning despite the tear tracks on his cheeks. How tired he looked.

“Kàno...” He coughed violently, his breath raspy and hoarse.

“It’s okay, I’m here. You’re safe, now.” Fingon stroked Maedhros’ hair and the side of his face with the back of his fingers, unable to stop smiling.

Maedhros smiled back slightly, shifting to take Fingon’s hand in his. He stopped halfway in the movement, however, when his eyes fell on the bandage.  
“Oh, yes. We bandaged it while it heals. Your other wounds, too.”

Maedhros looked down, lifted the white shirt someone had put on him. His body was wrapped in bandages of all sorts, some still needed changing. He was suddenly filled with disgust and misery. His body was a wreck, and his mind, full with the poison of Morgoth, spun with self-hatred and anxiety.

“The Healers say you should stay in bed for a few more days, but then you’ll be alright.” He reached forward to take Maedhros’s bandaged arm, bent down to kiss it, his mouth lingering for what seemed an eternity to Maedhros.

When Fingon looked back up, his cheeks were flushed, a huge grin on his face. “I missed you,” he said cheekily, his hand falling onto Maedhros’s cheekbone again.

“You should...” Maedhros coughed again, tried to clear his throat. “You should have left...” More coughing. Fingon offered him the glass of water again, his other hand on his back to try and steady him. “You should have left me,” the ginger Elf said at last between fits of coughing.

The other’s smile wavered for a moment. “I’ll always come and get you, Maitimo.”

Someone had knocked, then and Fingon had moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Fingolfin had walked in, regal as ever, it seemed. Unlike his son, the King’s worry had not been betrayed by his features. His dark skin seemed so clear, his hair perfectly braided on the side of his head, crowned by a silver-white tiara.

The older Elf had offered comfort and hospitality while Maedhros’s wounds healed. He had treated him as his own son, better than Fëanor had ever treated his own children.

And now he was dead.

Someone knocked again.

The Ef sighed and walked over to the door. There was no one outside when he opened it. He hadn't recognised the voice but assumed it must have been one of Morgoth’s corrupted thralls. A tray with food had been set on the floor before him. So I am in a cage, now, Maedhros thought, making the tray slide inside with his foot. From what he gathered, it must be about midday. Someone would usually come and get him to accompany him outside after his lunch but, he felt that it would not be the case today.

A feeling of gloom had befallen Angband that day. Did it have anything to do with the duel the night before? Maedhros could not tell. What he was sure of, however, was that Morgoth had not forgotten him and would keep tormenting him while he stayed in Angband.

Sighing wearily, the Elf turned to the window once again, heart heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read on Tumblr: https://forgetmynamefic.tumblr.com/


	6. Taking Sides-Part 1

Weeks of solitude passed, or so it seemed. Maedhros had forgotten to count, and when the idea occurred to him, he had lost all notion of time.

Some days, the Elf felt the ground shake, a low rumble heaving from the very heart of Angband. He had not attempted to speculate on what caused such turmoil below but with boredom gnawing at him in that lonely room, he could not help but guess that the Lord of Angband was angry. Probably at the Elves. There had been a sheer terror in Sauron’s eyes the night Fingolfin had come and Maedhros knew that not many among Iluvatar’s children would be capable of dealing wounds to one of the Ainur.

One morning, however, as the ginger Elda was sprawled on top of the sheets, staring at the ceiling, the door of his room opened suddenly. Maedhros sat up and his gaze fell on Sauron. A blond Sauron. The Elf frowned slightly at the sight but the other did not leave him time to say anything.

"Come with me," Sauron said simply, already walking out.

Maedhros hurried after him, confused. It had been weeks since the only evidence that they still remembered him was the tray of food placed twice a day in front of the door. And now, Sauron of all people was leading him down into the confines of the fortress.

They descended staircase upon staircase of black stone steps, their way lighted by small torches incrusted in the walls, which seemed to disappear once they had passed them. Although they met no one on their way, Maedhros could often hear the sound of machines working when they walked past doors, and the ground still shook occasionally. On these occurrences, the Maia twitched slightly, breathing a little harder, and Maedhros wondered what could have happened between Morgoth and him. Did it have anything to do with the hair?

A sudden profusion of light wiped all of the thoughts of gossip from Maedhros’ mind. The sounds and the smells emanating from the room beyond the door were anything but unfamiliar to the ginger Elf.

Having spent countless hours in his father’s forge, Maedhros recognised the place immediately, and a wave of nostalgia overcame him. Not for his father, of course, but for what was associated with his blissful childhood. Besides, he had not stepped into a forge since before he was last in Angband, and he had missed that feeling.

It did not explain why Sauron had brought him here, though. Maedhros had stopped in the doorway, cautious, while the Maia rummaged in a large chest on one side of the room.

“Come,” he repeated, straightening up and turning back towards the Elf.

Maedhros sighed, slightly apprehensive, but stepped closer anyway. Sauron looked at him with a smile, but if it was sly or...excited? Maedhros could not tell.

“Give me your hand,” he said when the Elf had stopped in front of him. The latter glared defiantly and he bit his upturned bottom lip, seemingly refraining a giggle.

Yet, when the Elf did not move, the glint of excitement in Sauron’s eyes disappeared and he grabbed his wrist and slid the hilt of a sword into his palm. Confused, Maedhros scowled alternatively at him and the sword.

“Would you care to explain what this is supposed to be?” He asked.

Sauron scoffed. “Well, it’s a sword. I thought you Ñoldor were smarter than that.”

“No, but--”

“It’s a present. I made it.” He hesitated a moment. “Want to go try it out?”

Maedhros wasn’t sure. What game was Sauron playing? So far, they had mostly ignored each other, and Sauron did not seem to want to have anything to do with Maedhros. He had a feeling that this sudden interest also had something to do with the Maia’s new hair. Was he trying to make his master jealous?

“It’s fine, I’m not going to burn you alive.” 

Maedhros didn’t want to get into their lovey-dovey feud, but he also needed to get outside and move a little.

“Fine.”  
******  
Maedhros wouldn’t have thought that sparring with the Lieutenant of Angband would be so entertaining. Besides, the sword was incredible. He believed it was made with the same strange metal as his hand and it fit him perfectly. His old sword, which had been left in the armoury, now seemed inadequate, heavy and unbalanced. No matter how much it hurt to admit it, Sauron was a much better smith than his father. And Maedhros noticed that, in fact, it did not hurt all that much.

The Maia has also summoned him to dinner that night. He had said it was Morgoth’s idea, but Maedhros only half believed that. It was difficult to resist Sauron’s suave words and naturally easy-going manner, though, so Maedhros had accepted. 

Yet, having been left alone during the afternoon, the Elf had had the time to ponder. The first time he had been here, Sauron had been merciless, twisting his body and mind before nailing him on that mountain and he would have left him to die if Fingon had not come. This time, however, Morgoth had offered him to fight in his army and Sauron had shown his firm disagreement. Fingolfin had come and now, the lord of Angband was all but ignoring him and his lieutenant had suddenly manifested a strong interest in him and had gone to great lengths to offer him presents. Maedhros knew that neither could be trusted but he also wondered whether both of them had the same intentions.

Even though his impetuous disposition and resisting nature had been quelched since he had been back from the Iron Hills the first time, Maedhros wanted to understand what was going on and whether it would work in his favour or not.

When the sky outside had become more black than grey, the Elf, dressed in his silver clothes bearing the golden crest of Mithrim, left his room to dine with the lords of Angband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who was wondering, Melkor's snake is actually canon. He says in 'The Fall of Gondolin' that he has 'adders around his legs'! ^^


	7. Taking Sides-Part 2

“Well, good evening, son of Fëanor.” Mairon stood up to greet his guest, glancing at Melkor to see his reaction.

The Dark Lord gave a surprised click of his tongue when Maedhros appeared in the dining hall. Seated on his throne, Melkor had one leg stretched onto a crimson cushion held by one of his twisted thralls, a black panther purring beside his other foot.

Mairon had always protested at his master’s extravagant and useless black animals but all the Vala had ever replied was: “Isn’t black such a fabulous colour, darling?” Mairon often wondered what his master would have become without him. A drunk opera diva, probably.

In any case, the Maia had decided to ignore Melkor’s excessive whims. His fight with the Ñoldorin King had made him bitter and insufferable and no matter what Mairon did to try and comfort him, the Vala protested that he had orchestrated all of this with Tulkas to take his revenge after the werewolf incident. It was ridiculous, of course. Mairon would never associate with the vain Valar and he had not even been that upset.

This was his revenge, though. Melkor had wanted to take advantage of the captured Elf despite his lieutenant’s warnings. He had wanted to give him the commandment of his army, the place the Maia had held for aeons! He would now pay the price for his carelessness. 

So far, his plan had been a success. Maedhros had been receptive and seemed to have let his guard down, at least slightly. With a little more time, the Elf would be at his feet and he’d be able to get at Melkor, thanks to the treasure both him and the Fëanorian coveted.

“Pray, sit down, you must be exhausted after our practice session!” Mairon said jovially, indicating a chair on the other side of the table.

“Your practice session?” Melkor had stood up and limped over to his chair at the head of the table. His panther followed and sprang onto the sofa behind them, stretching its limbs before lying down, its head on its front paws.

“Yes, to try out the new sword I made him,” Mairon replied, gesturing for wine to be brought to the table.

“Oh, that’s what you were doing in the forges all day,” the Vala mumbled.

“So, Maedhros, I suppose you were surprised to see your uncle at the gates the other day? Or maybe you knew he would come?” Mairon felt his master tense. Melkor hated not being in charge of the conversation.

The wine had come and Mairon poured two glasses, one for Maedhros and one for himself, before handing the bottle to his master without even looking at him.

“He’s my half-uncle, actually.”

Good, Mairon thought. Very good.

“And no, he’s not really what I would call reckless,” Maedhros admitted, as he brought the glass of wine to his lips, tasting the richly perfumed liquor. Produced in the corrupted halls of Angband, however, the wine was not particularly safe for an Elf to drink, especially if the Elf in question wanted to stay clear-headed.

“I thought he had come for you, you know? I thought that’s it, the Elvenking is coming to steal his protégé from us.”

The Maia watched Maedhros with interest. Would the wine already have some effect on his mind?

“I don’t think I’m his protégé.” The ginger Elf spoke slowly, as if still cautious but not on the defensive anymore. It was still a dangerous game Mairon was playing; a clumsy word and the momentum would be lost.

The lieutenant of Angband glanced at his master, suddenly worried that he would be the one to say something indelicate. However, the Vala was sulking, only throwing uninterested looks at the table as the main course was beginning to be served. Nevertheless, Mairon knew not to be tricked by his master’s docility. He was listening, speculating, and beneath his pouting mouth, a sly smirk was hiding.

“Oh yes?” Mairon continued casually, pushing the tray of meat towards the Elf with a polite smile. “But you are close to his son, aren’t you?” He thought best not to mention his previous escape. It would remind him of the conditions of his first stay in Angband, and it would also remind Melkor of his wrath when the son of Fëanor had escaped his surveillance.

“Yes, we were... but...” Mairon offered him the salad bowl to encourage his story (Melkor had decided to start a healthy diet). “Things change.”

Mairon was delighted. The Elf was doubting his friends and kin and confiding in him. Now, he just had to build on this budding trust and he would control the ginger Elf's mind.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Melkor chimed in, mouth full of salad, vinegar drooling down his jaw.

Oh no.

Mairon swallowed hard, fighting the urge to glare at his master. Knowing Melkor, what he was going to say once he had swallowed his mouthful of salad could either be incredibly timely or extremely stupid.

“It’s a shame, though, that elven prince had a really cute ass.”

Mairon choked on his lamb chops.


	8. Questions

The conversation had been pleasant enough, once the subject of Fingon had been discarded (and that had been rather quickly done by an eerily calm Mairon). Yet, Maedhros had felt uncomfortable.

Would Fingon follow his father? The door clicked shut behind him and the ginger Elf crossed to the window, gazing out at the shade of grey he had learnt meant dusk.

The day he had been back in Hithlum, Maedhros had told Fingon that he shouldn’t have saved him. But the young Elf had insisted.

“I will always be there for you, Maitimo, my love. You can stay here until you heal. And after, too,” he had whispered into his ear before kissing him all over.

But Maedhros had not healed. The aches of his body passed slowly but the woes of his mind and heart lingered, and the memory of the lies, of the fear that had taken lodgings inside him, would not leave. At night, the storms of Angband’s fury tormented him until he woke up sweating and vomiting.

Fingon held him, made love to him, soothed him every night. When he finally fell into a troubled sleep, the Elf would stroke his hair and kiss his brow, staying his quavers of fear.

Nonetheless, the ginger Elf kept to himself more and more as each day passed. The light had withdrawn from his eyes and the creases of his smile faded from his face.

Never losing his enthusiasm, Fingon usually held the conversation alone, doing his best to prompt a sign of acknowledgement in his lover, but to no avail.

Maedhros had gone back to Himring. He could not find the strength to watch Fingon’s caring hands brush over him.comstantly. He could not find the strength to modulate his emotions when he wanted nothing but to die. At least, there was no one in Himring who cared about him enough to ask how he felt.

Would Fingon follow his father? Turning away from the window, Maedhros undid his tunic and threw it in a hump at the foot of the bed.

Why would he care to save him when he couldn’t stand him anymore? That’s what he had said, decades after when Maedhros’s hair had already been fading to a greyish red for years when nothing Fingon could do brought him pleasure when his conversation was never more than a slight breeze barely brushing the grass.

“I can’t stand you anymore, Maedhros!”

He never called him Maedhros. Unless he was very angry. But Fingon was never angry.

They had been walking together in silence, the older Elf’s eyes downcast, as they always were since he had come back from Angband.

Fingon had tried to initiate a conversation multiple times, as he always did. He always asked insignificant things, trying to explore the confines of the other's mind. Maedhros was brooding, not even sparing a glance in his lover’s direction. Until Fingon stopped. Maedhros looked up. His cousin was glaring at him. looking like a schoolboy who has just lost a fistfight in the courtyard. The ginger Elf made to step closer to put a hand on his cheek, trying to show the sympathy that everyone showed towards him. But Fingon shook his head and turned away.

“Kàno... What... Are you alright?”

“No.”

"What do you mean? Is there something wrong?" Despite the concern his words showed, Maedhros’s voice was bland.

“Why did you leave me?”

"Pardon me?"

Fingon turned back towards Maedhros. His eyes were bright, the light of the morning making the tears in them shine.

"Kàno, I didn't leave you, " he continued when the other didn't reply. "You know I would never--"

“I can't stand you anymore, Maedhros!”

There was a sob in Fingon’s voice. Maedhros didn't dare move. The Fingon he knew would never raise his voice, he would never be so harsh in his words. His distress would come like light autumn rain, shaking his shoulders with silent tears and inviting anyone who was nearby, should it be his lover in the gardens or a Balrog in the battlefield, into a warm hug.

"You left me. Since you... Since you came back from... You left for Himring with a hurried farewell. DON’T INTERRUPT ME!"

Maedhros stepped back, nodding slowly as he bit back his words.

"And you haven't visited in two years. You sent your ridiculous presents and all the while I was on my own!" Fingon closed his eyes and sighed. Tears started rolling down his cheeks.

“Fin... I’m sorry, I didn’t know you felt that way... I just wanted to show I was thinking about you...”

“You were? That is not the impression I got when I heard you spent all your time with our cousin...”

“Who? Finrod?”

“I know he gave you the ring you sent me.”

“Fin, are you really insinuating--”

“Listen, I think you should go back to Himring.”

Fingon turned away and started down the path that led back to the palace. Horrified, Maedhros ran after him and caught his arm.

"Wait. I..." His mouth opened and closed silently as Fingon glared at him. "I love you."

"Well, I DON’T!!" The prince yelled, whipping around. "I should have let you rot on Thangorodrim."

Maedhros saw the room spin and barely had the time to rush to the washbasin in the corner before the bile burned his throat and spilt out of his mouth as he coughed.

No, he would never come back.

Not when he had a kingdom to take care of. A... Family.

The boy must be about ten years old, now. Maedhros had not even dared send a present for the baby’s birth. He had been invited to the wedding to avoid family tensions, but Fingon had not even deigned to acknowledge his presence. He didn't even remember what his wife looked like. He hoped she was pretty. And even so... It was hard to imagine Fingon with a woman.

Maedhros lifted his head up and observed the room. He didn't really want to leave. He had never meant to escape, even if it meant being the guest of his family’s nemesis. What sort of son befriended his father’s sworn enemy?

His father was dead, anyway, and besides, he was starting to appreciate the harbour grey of dawn and the anchor grey of late afternoon in the land of Shadows.

If there were shadows, there must be some light too, no?


	9. The Herald

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone sending comments. I really appreciate all the feedback even if I don't reply to everything! ^^  
> And please forgive me for the Barbadian speech. I tried to be coherent but feel free to correct me if there's anything I did wrong!!!

"Mairon, yuh title of the sexiest redhead is gon be put in question. Especially since yuh hair ain red anymore."

The woman ruffled Marion's hair shamelessly as he growled at her.

“What are you doing here? At this time?!” He grabbed her arm, inspected her palm, the folds of her cloak. “In the day-time?!!!”

“I’m no crazy lady. Who you take me for? Draugluin found a spell! It does not last very long. Only problem.”

“Draugluin?! This fortress is getting out of hand, I should never have let you set it up alone,” Mairon sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers.

"So, who de new guy, huh? One of Aulë’s again?"

Maedhros was slightly confused. He had no idea who this woman was and why she was interrupting his and Mairon’s lunch.

Sat outside on the table that served when the weather got warmer-not that it ever got much warmer than mildly freezing in this region of Arda-the Elf and the Maia had been discussing Melkor’s infuriating temper when a black shadow had crossed the skies and landed right behind Mairon. The woman, dressed in tight black leather, and a red cloak had made Maedhros jump in his seat.

However, she looked equally surprised, her blood-red lips arching into an intrigued smile, revealing clear white fangs. She spun the chair that was next to Mairon around, straddling it to sit down, her elbows resting on the table and her heavy curly brown hair framing the clear outlines of her face.

"My name’s Maedhros." Maedhros snapped before Mairon could say anything. He stretched out his hand for her to shake it.

"An Elda, eh? And a son of Fëanor, no?." Her smile widened. "Thuringwethil." She took his hand, rose it to her lips and kissed his knuckles, her red eyes flashing up towards the Elf before she let go.

Maedhros snatched his hand away before it fell on the table and sat back in his chair, scowling. Thuringwethil licked her lips, staring at the Elf with a gaze full of lust. Or was it... Hunger?

"Thuri, stop drooling. He is a guest."

Mairon shifted in his seat when she put her long clawed fingers against his jawline.

"What have you come here for?" His tone was hard but a smile played on his lips as he watched the vampire jest with him.

"Oh, yuh ain no fun, my admirable lordship!" She stood up in a flurry of red and, draping her cloak about her waist, she made her way to the other side of the table, swinging her hips.

Maedhros sighed, irritated. Not that this sort of show got to him, of course.

Thuringwethil’s arms were soon around his neck, her lips at his ear. “Sure yuh allowed to listen to the grown-ups talk?” Her warm breath made the hair on Maedhros’ neck stand on end.

“Thuri, please get to the point.”

Thuringwethil huffed and fell into Maedhros’ lap, her arm wrapping around his neck. The Elf shifted uncomfortably. He glanced at Mairon for help but the Maia just smiled, amused.

“We master called for me. But he will not receive me, now,” she moaned, looking at Maedhros with large, mournful eyes. The Elf grimaced slightly, not knowing where to put his hands anymore.

“Melkor is sulking in the forges. Again.” A streak of sadness, which Thuringwethil did not fail to notice, crossed Mairon’s face.

“Wha in Avathar happened?” She stood up, leaving Maedhros in peace. Finally.

“I thought you would have heard.”

“I hear everything.” The vampire threw her arms up exuberantly, pacing around them until finally settling on the edge of the table. “I only wonderin if it ain somethin between you two.” She shrugged simply but a glance at Mairon’s face betrayed her interest.

“No,” Mairon snapped back. “No. It is nothing of the sort. As I said, he is simply upset because of the incident with the High King.”

“Late High King, I believe. If only I did was there.” Thuringwethil turned to Maedhros, licking her fangs. The Elf tensed slightly. Even Morgoth had not mentioned the death of Fingolfin so casually.

“Watch your mouth, you spawn of darkness,” Mairon warned. The light had disappeared from his face when he glared at her. Rather, it had been replaced by a black light, emanating from his eyes.

Thuringwethil laughed. “Spawn o darkness? That all you find?” She stood up once again and threw her cloak back behind her. “Too bad, though. Ñoldor blood was always my favourite.” 

Giggling, she threw a mischievous look at Mairon before transforming into a huge black bat. Maedhros’ eyes opened wide. She was taller than Mairon, taller maybe even than Morgoth like this, her dark red wings, nearly black, impressively clawed, folded against her black lightly furred body.

Mairon stood up, his chair falling with a clatter behind him. “Don’t you dare--”

Before he could move to catch her, the Maia spread her large veined wings, translucent into the grey light of noon and leapt into the air.

“Tell we master I mus talk to him!” She cried back, somersaulting into the air and disappearing behind the mountains.

“Thuringwethil! Come back here you despised behemoth!!!” Mairon cursed in a speech Maedhros did not understand.

“I cannot believe her,” he said as he turned back towards the Elf.

“Who is she?” Maedhros asked, frowning.

“Oh, Thuringwethil. My herald. She thinks she has airs.” Mairon rolled his eyes. “She thinks she is the Queen of the place because I gave her and Draugluin provisional command of Tol-in-Gaurhoth.”

“Tol-in-Gaurhoth?” Maedhros asked.

“Ah, yes, Minas Tirith, my latest acquisition. From your cousin, I believe. I renamed it, of course. Tower of Guard is such an unoriginal name.” Mairon seemed to hesitate for a few moments, eyeing Maedhros with interest or suspicion, he could not tell. “It is where I will lead the army from but we... ah... are too few to manage the place and keep activities here in check. Too few with confirmed loyalties, at least.” He rubbed the back of his neck wearily, but his eyes were still fixed on Maedhros.

The latter smiled awkwardly, thinking fast. Minas Tirith? He did not know they had taken Minas Tirith. If he had still been in Mithrim, would Mairon’s capture of the fortress still have succeeded? Would his army have been able to stop him? Did his army evens still exist? The more he thought about it, the more Maedhros remembered that he was not a guest but a mere prisoner.

"It is getting increasingly difficult to, you know, fulfil the purpose for which we have come here. And I would like to finish setting Tol-in-Gaurhoth in place before we start sending the army there.”

But then, Mairon made this sort of comment. Did that mean he trusted him or was it only because he knew that he would be unable to escape and could not reveal this information to anyone? Now was his chance to know.

“Is my loyalty left unconfirmed, then?” He asked, leaning against the post holding up the roof of the terrace.

Mairon stopped his pacing and looked up at Maedhros. “Excuse me?”

The Elf regretted his question almost immediately. For a brief moment, Mairon looked as if he was going to rip Maedhros’ throat out with his teeth.

“I did not mean to--”

“Your question was legitimate.” Mairon’s face had recovered its usual uninterested expression. “But it is not my place to answer it.”

Maedhros nodded slowly.

“I have work to do.” Mairon turned away and strode back inside, leaving Maedhros alone on the terrace, cheeks flushed and heart beating fast.

He sat back down at the table, staring at the sky. If he had thought his relationship with Mairon had become amiable, it was now reduced to the initial coldness the Maia had shown when he had first arrived...


	10. BONUS CHAPTER FOR TOLKIEN CRACK WEEK; The Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stupid drabble/bonus chapter for @tolkiencrackweek that is kind of canon actually. For reference, see The Fall of Gondolin, 2019 hardback edition page 106:   
> "Then arose Thorondor, King of Eagles, and he loved not Melko; for Melko had caught many of his kindred and chained them against sharp rocks to squeeze from them the magic words whereby he might learn to fly (for he dreamed of contending even against Manwë in the air); and when they would not tell he cut off their wings and sought to fashion therefrom a mighty pair for his use."

Maedhros and Mairon were sitting on a blanket on the highest peak of the Thangorodrim, eating tuna sandwiches as they contemplated the view below.

“Look, Maedhros,” the Maia said, pointing at the mountains encircling the fortress of Angband. “Everything the shadow touches is our kingdom.”

“What about that gleaming place to the North?” Maedhros replied, running his hand through his mane of dark red hair. 

“That is Dor Daidelos, the Region of Everlasting Cold. You must never go there,” the lieutenant warned, taking a bite of his sandwich.

"Hey, isn't that Melkor over there?"

Mairon stood up, squinting. “You’re right. What in Arda is he doing up on the roof?”

Indeed, the dark lord of Angband seemed to be standing on the roof of one of the towers leading to the gate, wearing something on his back. He opened his arms, revealing some sort of material stretched out between his limbs and his body but it was difficult to make out exactly what it was from afar.

“What the actual fuck?” Maedhros had stood up, too, using his hands as goggles to try and get an idea of what exactly the Vala was up to. 

Melkor took a few steps back. And he jumped.

\-------

“I don’t understand why these lesser Maiar should be able to fly and not a great Vala like me,” Melkor mumbled as he stooped over his work on the table.

A few weeks before, his spies had caught another of Manwe’s eagle lackeys in the mountains around Tol Sirion. Of course, the witless bird had refused to speak and the Vala had been compelled to let him go, poor thing, but you had to understand that his project was of the greatest importance and he only needed one more pair of wings to complete it.

Melkor had insisted that he wanted no help; he had not told Mairon about it and had even hand-sewn the wings together himself.

Now, he just had to test them out, and what place was better to do so than the confort of his own fortress? Or rather of the confort of the roof of his fortress. Besides, Mairon and Maedhros had gone out for a picnic so he could still keep it a surprise until he was sure it worked.

He had climbed up to the tiled roof, having tied his homemade wings to his back. From the top of the fortress, he could see the icy land to the North as well as the territories he covetted to the South, beyond Thangorodrim.

A perfect place to fly.

The Vala looked up, presenting his face to the grey sky. Slowly, he stepped back, feeling the wind hit his face. 

After a moment of silent contemplation, he lowered his head to look straight ahead and ran into empty abyss before him.

Melkor flapped his arms wildly, stayed in the air for a few moments and finally started falling in a heap, his wings flapping in every direction.

"MAAIIIROOOON!!!!!"


End file.
